


Tel Garas Solasan: Come Not to a Prideful Place

by cherryjamontoast



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23821207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryjamontoast/pseuds/cherryjamontoast
Summary: They all had their plans: bride, the Wardens, the agent, the hero, the healer, the apostate, the expectant mother. They could see their future stretched out before them, close enough to touch. What is that old saying? Speak your plans and listen to Fen'Harel laugh. The year is 9:10 Dragon and whether they are complicit or not, they will all have a hand in awakening the Dread Wolf.
Relationships: Leandra Hawke/Malcolm Hawke





	1. The Bride

**Author's Note:**

> Adaia Surana was ready to marry the love of her life, Cyrion Tabris. She had her adventures and capers and was ready to settle down to a quiet life. How was she to know that The Fang of Fen'Harel wasn't finished with her? A fellow associate meets her at The Pearl with details of a mission she can't refuse.

**The Bride**

She regarded the hooded elf coldly. She was unimpressed with the man before her and took no pains to hide it. Her eyebrow lifted with her glass and she let the ruckus of The Pearl fill the silence. For his part, her companion only met her gaze with those eyes... those odd, unsettling yellow eyes.

“It’s bad luck, you know, for blood to be spilled before a wedding.” She said at last and cut her companion off before he could speak. “The papers have been drafted; the groom is coming to the Alienage. Dresses are being sewn. Food scrounged together. Everything is set.”

“Superstitions are of no consequence to He Who Hunts Alone, Adaia Surana, you should know this.”

“Then his Dred-ness has never dealt with the future mother-in-law straight from the Abyss.” She hissed, leaning forward. “Cyrion had to grease many palms to get this thing to happen and she STILL disapproves of this match. At this rate I’m going to have to name all my children after Kallian Tabris just to satisfy his fool mother.”

The hooded figure slid a dagger across the table. Adaia caught it with a thump that was so loud the tavern all but grew silent.

“You made a promise.” The figure growled.

Around them, the tavern goers paused and watched but quickly lost all interest as the two glared resentfully at each other. Dramatic stand offs were almost a nightly occurrence. It was considered polite to at least pause dramatically. It was a courtesy the regular patrons lost the novelty of quickly.

“You made a vow, Adaia. Don’t think you can fall into a marriage and play housewife as if paperwork can excuse you from your vow. You made better ones to the Dread Wolf long before you met Cyrion.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?”

“It takes balls for someone to trick the trickster god, Adaia. You know what becomes of those who cross him.”

Adaia laughed coyly and tucked a copper tendril behind an intricately tattooed ear.

“Felandaris, Fen'Harel is gone. Just like all the Old Elvhen Gods... just like the shem’s Maker.” She didn’t say ‘unlike Cyrion’s Maker’ but let the reality sink in to Felandaris. “It was fun; sticking it to the Shems, playing some sort of Black Fox like hero... in the end we are nothing more than Red Jenny‘s with a different na-“

Felandaris spat at the mention of the Jenny’s.

“We are NOT like them, Adaia.” His voice was rising with vehemence. “WE are called to tend our People when the Dalish turned on us- living like heathens in the woods PLAYING Elvhen. WE are Fen Harel’s stewards a-“

Adaia quirked an eyebrow and half a smile. “Shall I get the Vhenedhal to put behind you and play a rousing tune on the kazoo to match such a rousing speech.”

Felandaris’s response came so quietly, Adaia had to ask his pardon to hear it again before it changed her life forever.

“We have found where the Dread Wolf lay sleeping for a millennia”.

The smirk wiped from her face, Adaia was all ears now.


	2. The Wardens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grey Wardens Gordon and Estera arrive in Gwaren, hot on the heels of the thief that stole an important artifact from the Wardens. What they didn't count on was a crowded city made even more so due to an event. They realize might have to take a different approach from here.

**The Wardens**

Ferelden’s musty stench hit them in the face as soon as they stepped foot on its soil. If a smell could be solid, this one would have been a full bulwark.

He grimaced. “Smells like wet dog.”

His mage companion cooed a sarcastic reassurance, “Poor baby! Put scented oil in your beard and you’ll be fine.”

She flicked her wrists in a languid, dismissive circle and shot him a wicked wink before clinking down the gangways. Estera couldn’t be more Antivan if she even tried. Her Warden armor was the same as any other Warden mage, but she made up for it with bracelets and baubles all of Antivan design as well as metal dangles and cuffs in her dark, twisted up hair.

More than once since he had met Estera he had thought about unpinning the thick hair from its coil, about her baubles reflecting light onto her bare skin. As soon as those thoughts entered, he quickly put them out of his head. Estera was twice his age and Antivan besides. Antivans took two things in life without reservation: sex and murder. It seemed the two were mutually exclusive. He didn’t much fancy the latter; no matter how much he was tempted by her.

As the made their way through Gwaren’s docks and into the city proper, a crowd began to form. Soon it was too thick to move without jostling into several people.

“Maker’s breath!” He swore, swerving to let by a wailing woman. “What have we walked into?!”

Estera rolled her eyes and said as if he were simple, “The Teyrna’s funeral.”

When he still looked confused, Estera heaved a sigh. He really was only good for swinging a sword and banging darkspawn with his shield. She turned him to face the opposite direction and the funeral procession. How did she pull the short straw to get this warden recruit?!

“Gordon, you’re all beard and no brain. Look!”

He stung at the comment. Perhaps it wasn’t just his thoughts on Antivans that made him take pause at the idea of taking her hair down. Estera, like most mages, was condescending as hell.

“Could be anyone’s procession for all we know.” He offered offensively just as a cryer announced the exact opposite.

“Teyrna Maeve Mac Tir, wife of the hero of the River Dayne....”

Estera have Gordon a pointed look as a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. It was almost as if she was trying to hold back a laugh. They were on Warden business though, and Estera was professional…despite being Antivan.

The moment passed swiftly. A second later, she set her jaw and commented, “This changes how we approach this from here.”

“The fugitive could be anywhere in the city.” Gordon agreed, he brought a hand to his beard and thought. Gwaren amidst a royal funeral? The thief could have been anywhere in the crowd for all they knew.

“He’s not IN the city.” Estera countered and held up a ring covered hand to his chest. She was taller than an elf, that was for sure, but Estera was easily shorter by a hand.

“Think about it, Gordon.” She continued, sounding like a tutor in the classroom. Damn condescending mages.

“Don’t think like a soldier. You are a Warden now and we are more than the sum of our parts.”

“The city provides cover.” He observed, “Anonymity. The thief can hide for weeks in this crowd and we could still be searching.”

“Keep turning those gears in your mind, Gordon.” His companion encouraged.

The crowd began to move forward, filling in the streets behind the line of noble mourners. A young blonde woman- practically a child- with an air of haughtiness led the procession behind the body. While the noble women wailed around her, the girl remained impassive. Gordon and Estera didn’t fight the crowd but went along with them.

It was best to let Gordon mull it over without distraction. Larius insisted that Estera take some muscle instead of someone who could track... or another mage who specialized in Ancient Elvhen.

No. Estera was stuck with the ‘Beard’. Larius didn’t want a huge party tracking down this thief and insisted she bring muscle. ‘In case things backfired.’

Her hand floated to her side satchel at the thought. Plan B hummed a silent call to her, assuring her it was still there and begging to be used. She put aside the fear she would have had if she was on the receiving end of Plan B. However horrible it was, it would leave him no choice but to comply to the Order’s requests.

The notion would have unnerved her if Estera didn’t hail from the Antivan City Circle where one’s research was protected above everything. She supposed it was similar to the Orlesian Game but with encoded research notes and casual, terrible, hexes.

No, the thief stole something important and it was their job to either retrieve it or beat the thief to his destination. Should the trail go cold, they had to adjust; which is where Plan B came into play. If Plan B didn’t elicit help, then Gordon (Plan C) would.

Presently, Estera grew impatient at the rate of which Gordon‘s wheels were turning. The mage decided to spell it out plainly.

“Our thief is counting on us spending weeks in the city looking for him.” Estera offered, annoyed. “Nothing like a crowd to get lost in... or slow down your pursuers.”

“So, we move on?” Gordon quipped, over the wailing of the keeners. The crowd had them pushed close to the store fronts and it was all Gordon could do to not bang his head on the shop signs.

Estera grabbed his arm and pulled him down the street and into a tavern. She tossed a coin to the barkeep for a room and pulled Gordon up the stairs as she explained over her protests of how the thief ‘wasn’t even in the city’.

She shoved him into the said room and closed the door behind them. They had to move before the thief’s trail grew cold.

She began unbuckling her gauntlets as she spoke.

“We’re ditching the Warden armor and following without bringing attention to ourselves. We got some supplies. We’ll grab more on the way. And a cart and a mule or two and follow that way.”

Gordon, who was still trying to catch up with the sudden turn of events gaped at Estera who changed as she spoke.

“We’ll go as merchants and try to stay on his trail. It is possible that he will try to shake us before going to the site. If his trail goes cold, we go straight to the Kocari Wilds to beat him there. This is where you come in... in case our guide needs persuasion.”

She paused, noticed Gordon‘s gaping and tossed her boot at him. “Get IN your knapsack and change into civilian clothes, damn it!!”

Like from a dream, Gordon was roused and followed suit. It was a foolish notion, but he couldn’t help but hope Estera would take down her hair for their disguise.

“Why even trail the thief at all?” He mused. “Why don’t we just get to our guide and go to the site directly?”

“Larius was explicit.” Estera replied, pulling at pins in her hair. “We try to find the thief first. He doesn’t want to involve Malcolm unless we have no other choice.”

Gordon huffed in annoyance. The secrecy of the Order vexed him. Giving only half of the team vital mission information? Stupid. In the army if one end of the line didn’t know what the other was supposed to be doing in battle, chaos ensued. But he had to recall that he-unlike most Wardens CHOSE to join the Order.

“Anything else I need to know?” He groused sarcastically.

Estera said something but it was lost to Gordon as Estera’s braid cascade down past her shoulders. A floral perfume wafted faintly.

“Oh, and one more thing...” She added, walking to the dingy mirror to adjust her hair. She paused and regarded her companion fully then said, “I will not be sleeping with you on this mission, Gordon Blackwall.”


	3. The Apostate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fleeing from the Circle, the young apprentice Roland had found his way to a safe house thanks to instructions from the Mage Collective. It is hard for him to place trust in the shemlen farmer, Malcolm Hawke and his Free Marcher wife. But it may seem that Roland won't have much of a choice as an unexpected visitor arrives.

**The Apostate**

By all accounts, Roland was an angry soul even before the Templars came for him just outside of Crestwood. His folks were shit, absolute shit- at least the ones who took him in. There was nothing like a free elf child to help with the farm. But he supposed his birth parents, Dalish or city elf weren’t going to be praised as loving parents when they had left him swaddled at the crossroads by Cresswood.

At least the Circle Tower valued skill above racism- our so he had thought. It didn’t matter if one was elf blooded. If you proved smart and capable, your path was set. Provided the Templars didn’t out right kill you before you arrived at Kinloch Hold. The Shems were in the majority but it unnerved Roland how many of his kind failed the Harrowing or even were made Tranquil.

He was forced to wear a mask of polite meekness-no matter where he was. It didn’t matter if he was with other elves from the Circle; Templars always watched.

But where was he to go? What was he to do? He had been labeled a delinquent apprentice- gifted with potential but determined to squander it- quickly after beginning his training. Tevinter was outright not an option. And the Qun? Even worse for a mage. And it was more likely that he would be strung up by a mob of he went to any Alienage.

So, when Malcolm Hawke asked the question of where Roland would go, the answer came out immediately.

“The Dalish.”

Malcolm exchanged a look with his wife. An unspoken comment passed between them and quickly Leandra had found interest in anything but the apostate across from her. Her eyes refused to meet Roland’s and her hands caressed her swollen stomach, as if to shield the unborn child from becoming a mage.

“It will not be easy.” Malcolm conceded, a thoughtful tone covering a hard truth. “But if that is your wish, then we’ll steer you toward them.”

Roland took a sip of the tea Leandra had given him when he entered the small farmhouse. They were kind people... for shems... but he couldn’t help but stay on guard around them. Despite the Collective discretely identifying them as a safe house, Roland could not forget he wasn’t among his People.

“Is anything easy as an elf in this world, Ser?”

“Oh, I dunno...” Malcolm answered cavalierly scratching his beard in thought. “Pie?”

Leandra shot her husband a chastising look and smacked his shoulder in reproach which surprisingly cowed the tall bearded man. He cleared his throat, as if to clear away the terrible joke.

Roland took another sip of tea out of habit. “I’m afraid I never took a liking to desserts.”

Malcolm’s expression turned serious and he leaned across the table. “You are welcome to take your respite for as long as you need here. We have a small room hidden that you can stay in during the day. If Templars are going to come here, they tend to do so while the sun is up. Although it has happened on occasion that they stake out the place and come at night.”

“If they do catch you out, you only say that you are hired help.” Leandra added. “You were added on to watch our daughter and help me as I come closer to my time.”

Roland raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Does that even work?”

“You’d be surprised how fast some Templars stop their line of investigation once you give the slightest detail of the female condition.” Leandra confided quietly with a wink.

“You will meet our Marsaili in the morning.” Malcolm added, puffing up a little with pride, a smirk played on his lips. Malcolm Hawke looked nothing like the mages Roland new in the Circle Tower. He was tall and muscular to Roland‘s lithe, frail frame. He supposed it was due to the farm work, but it was clear that this man could deal out just as much damage with his fist as he could with his spells. It was bizarre to see such a man soften at the mention of a small child.

“Smart as a whip, our girl is. She’s-“ he paused mid gush as a tiny creak came from the small pantry turned bedroom in the back of the house. “Up.”

The little girl of five or six, regarded Roland quietly with baby blue eyes. She gripped a small mabari stuffed doll in one hand by its foot. Her dark hair was coming out of one of its twin braids. She didn’t respond right away to Leandra’s questioning but instead simply looked at Roland and said, “You need to hide.”

The next events happened so fast; Roland wasn’t sure the sequence of them. A knock at the door sounded, Roland reached for his staff, the child began to wail, and Malcolm suddenly towered over Roland.

“Put that down.” Malcolm Hawke growled softly. It was then Roland realized he couldn’t move. It was almost as if he was held fast to the ground. The door pounding continued as a voice called out for entry... in the name of the Templar Order.

“I gave my word to help you and I will. But if you do anything- _and I mean anything_ \- to put me and mine at risk, these Templars are the least of your worries. You will follow my lead. We clear? You won’t say anything beyond that you are hired to help my wife. Got it?”

The only movement Roland could give was a small nod of consent. As soon as it had happened, Roland felt the force lift from him. Malcolm gave a nod to Leandra to open the door.

She moved to the door, her bawling daughter in her wake. Malcolm clapped Roland’s shoulder and whispered, “Showtime,” before letting out a bellowing laugh.

Roland had no choice but to laugh as well. He wasn’t sure of what game Malcolm Hawke had planned, but it was clear that the Shem could take him. So, unsurprisingly again, Roland found himself at the mercy of a human.


End file.
